


Free Falling

by KylaraIngress



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaraIngress/pseuds/KylaraIngress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He falls. I let him." John recovers from the events of "Reichenbach Falls". Potentially part of a series (which, if there is a sequel, it's either going to be called "Don't Come Around Here No More" or "Breakdown", with the series called "Being (Tom) Petty" - just for that joke alone).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Falling

**Author's Note:**

> I did not intend - nor want - to write this one. (I guess that's a good sign?) In 2007, I had a good friend kill himself. Shot himself in the head. My SO and I spent a weekend trying to clean up his place, looking for a note and/or a will, which we never found. In working out "The Experiment: Testing the Hypotheses", the first line of this story came to me, and all the thoughts and guilt I've had since then (and continue to have) filtered through my brain. Then, it got wrapped up into the helplessness I've been feeling as a good friend has been getting steadily worse in her Alzheimer's. 
> 
> I owe a debt to IvyBlossom's "The Quiet Man": while I started writing this before I had read her epically beautiful post-Reichenbach Falls story, her John was also present tense (and a bit rambly) and is EXACTLY the way I hear him in my head as well. "The Quiet Man" is a work of art, and I can't even imagine how she was able to maintain a present-tense John for 300+ pages. This is just over 20, and I feel mentally exhausted. Any time I felt I lost John's voice, I'd re-read part of it - and it got me right back in.
> 
> Finally, I probably take some liberties as to the exact layout of 221B (if there actually IS an exact layout). It's fanfic and I went with what worked for the story. For the purposes of this fic, there's a 1/2 bath on the same floor as the kitchen and main room. 
> 
> Brit-picked by Elaine Verney, of the LiveJournal thebeesknow – the best British friend I'll ever have.

**Free Falling**

He falls. I let him.

I don't need my psychologist to tell me that my recurring nightmare is guilt. Watching Sherlock kill himself over, and over, and over. Not being able to do a damn thing about it. Like in real life.

"This is what people do, right? Leave a note?" His words echo in my mind. He's wrong, though. One of the few times he has been. In actuality, most suicides don't leave notes.

I'm trying to decide if his wanting to leave one is a good sign or bad. After all, from what I understand, had he taken his life before I joined his crazy life, he never would have.

So ....

The note is for me. For my benefit. To add to my nightmares. To add to my guilt. All the things I should've said. All the things I did say. Calling him a machine. Not telling him that he was the only thing that kept me going, that keeps me going. They run through my head every time.

He falls. I let him.

Again, and again, and again.

It's to the point where I don't wake up in anguish anymore. It's the times I don't dream about his suicide that now worry me. It's the only time I see him anymore, so while it's painful, it's become a type of pain that I endure, almost to the point of enjoyment.

I don't know why I'm surprised at that turn of events. Mycroft had acknowledged my need for danger, my enjoyment of it; Sherlock confirmed it. Is it really that surprising that it has turned into an enjoyment of pain as well? It's the only time I feel alive. The only time I feel he's still alive.

The days go by, slowly but in a blur. Each day is empty. Empty of excitement. Empty of mystery. Empty of Sherlock.

It's the nights in which I see him, the nights that are now filled with his flailing body. As each night happens, as each fall happens, I start to expect it, I start to be able to manipulate it. Small changes at first - being able to slow the fall down so I can see his face as he falls; being able to pause it right before he jumps so I can pretend - just for a moment - that he never fell. That I never let him fall. But the dream always ends the same.

He falls. I let him.

There are times I wake up stiff. I am halfway through rubbing one out before it dawns on me the oddness of the situation: masturbating to Sherlock's death, to his fall. I file it away with the enjoyment of the pain, to deal with later.

Despite everyone assuming it, Sherlock and I never were ....

I don't think he was even aware of people in a sexual manner until Irene Adler, and then after that, there was silence. He never acknowledged what - if anything - he did with her, despite my prodding. There was a moment or two since then that, hindsight being 20/20, makes me wonder if he wanted to test how it was different with men than with women in his endless quest for knowledge. I wonder now if I would have let him. I think I would have let him. It was Sherlock. He was beyond straight or gay. He just was.

I miss him like a phantom limb. And like a phantom limb, I feel him all the time. A man in a store wearing his coat, a newscaster speaking in his cadence, a yellow painted smiley face seen on an alley wall. I don't see him - I can't see him, he's dead after all - but I can't help but feel his presence everywhere. I feel it by his absence.

Damn him for taking the easy way out. Damn him to hell. I take that back. If there is a hell that's beyond the ones we create ourselves here, Sherlock doesn't deserve to go there. Not for that. Even if it means that I'm alone, that I'm empty. Even though it means I have the same nightmare every night.

He falls. I let him.

I replay our last conversation constantly, wondering what I could have said differently to have made him stop. Whether things would've gone differently had I not gone after Mrs. Hudson. All the little things that happened; all the big things that didn't. Knowing what I know now, how I feel now. Knowing I've masturbated to visions of him, knowing how once I am fully awake I don't stop the activity, but rather switch the image to remembering all the times I saw him in the buff.

It was Sherlock - he had no boundaries. I saw him in his altogether more times than I did the men I shared quarters with in Afghanistan. And it never bothered him. I, however, never knew where to look. To actively not stare seemed to acknowledge the situation's awkwardness more than to stare, after all.

He would often see me as well, although that was not my choice but again down to his lack of boundaries. I would be in the loo, either taking care of business or showering, and he would come in with one of his theories to discuss with me, never seeming to care or worry that he could see me in all my glory. It got to the point where I stopped shooing him out, as each time he just seemed exasperated and upset that I was interrupting his train of thought.

What would he think, knowing I was daily changing our relationship in my mind? He never seemed to care how people saw us: it never bothered him when people assumed we were a couple, not like it constantly bothered me. Maybe it bothered me because deep down, I knew they were right. I was his partner, in almost every definition of the word. We just never seemed to need to express it beyond being there for each other.

He falls. I let him.

While I still can't manage to bring myself back to Baker Street, I do find myself outside of Bart's. Sometimes intentionally - why not? I'm already there in my dreams - but sometimes, I wake up from my dream and am there in the early pre-dawn with no idea of how I got there. My dreams are now a waking reality, and I am apparently sleepwalking in my attempt to stop him from killing himself. While part of me knows I should be worried at this latest aspect of my grief, I am too dulled by it to care.

I stop where I was that day, and wonder whether my ability to manipulate my dreams, to stop him or slow him down, will transfer into real life. I stand there, looking at Bart's, looking at the roof, trying to use my will to change reality. Nothing changes. Everything changed.

I try to understand the whys of what he did, figure out what he was telling me between the lines. It had to be part of Moriarty's plan, to have him kill himself - especially in so public a manner. But Sherlock was always ten steps ahead of everyone, backups to backups.

Irene was able to fake her death: perhaps Sherlock was able to as well? But I hope he would have let me in on the plan, had let me help. There has to be some sort of clue he left me that tells me everything, but he was always overestimating how diligent I was to details, and his subtlety is still legendary.

No news is very bad news in this case, and for each day that passes without some sign, some clue, my hope is diminished. I am back where I started, limping along in life, the only thing reminding me that he was a part of my life is the yearning ache I feel every time I wake up and realize he is truly gone.

The others try to talk to me: my phone shows missed calls from Lestrade, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft, the bastard. The messages are all the same: 'Talk to me, John,'; 'We're worried about you, John'; 'Come back, John'; 'Time heals all wounds, John'. I eventually stop checking the messages: if I won't talk to my therapist about this, someone paid to help people go through situations like this (are there even 'situations like this'?), what makes them think I will talk to them? There's only one person I want to talk to, and he wouldn't trust me enough to let me in to his thought processes.

He falls. I let him.

I find myself half asleep on the street again. Without much thought, I start climbing the fire escape in order to get to the roof. Enough time has passed now to where I can go up there unobserved - almost a year. I don't quite know what I'm doing, but have become used to just walking through life without much reason in the time since it happened. Do I hope to find something there? Do I hope to better understand his reasoning if I see it from his point of view? Is there some part of me that hopes there's a real note here – one that tells me the real story of what went on that day? I don't know, but that doesn't stop my ascent.

When I get there, the dawn still just a glimmer on the horizon, I stop a moment, still not quite fully awake. My mind automatically goes once again to our conversation, and this time I replay it focusing on his side of things. I walk slowly to the edge of the roof, remembering his last words, remembering my attempt to figure out what was going on even back then. I'm on the edge, literally and figuratively, and I look down at the ground. My limited knowledge of physics works with my detailed knowledge of the human body, and I try to calculate the damage a jump from this high could cause.

Through my sleep-induced haze, I vaguely realize my precarious position. Yet I remember what it was like before I met Sherlock, the reason I kept my gun, why I still keep it. Done the right way, a shot through the mouth, it would be painless and it would be quick. Not like this jump. This jump is messy, painful, and not even guaranteed to work. You fall the right way (or would it be the wrong way?), and you only wind up with broken bones, potentially in a vegetative state.

I feel so useless now that he's gone. So helpless. And I again wonder why I keep going. Yes, it's likely that Mrs. Hudson - maybe even Lestrade - would miss me if I was gone (Harry was usually too drunk to care), but they could finally stop worrying about me and move on. And I ... well, I'm not sure I believe in an afterlife, but at least this incessant ache of his absence would finally be gone. At last, I would be at peace.

I take a deep breath, take one more look down at the ground, and then turn around, defeated yet again. I would be at peace, but I miss Sherlock too much and feel too guilty at not being able to stop him to deserve respite from it just yet. Besides, I can't truly believe the others would be able to move on. After all, I never did.

He falls. I let him.

I finally get up the nerve to visit Baker Street. I don't want to, would never go back there if at all possible, the memories still hurt so much, but Mrs. Hudson has asked for help in clearing out Sherlock's possessions, something about how she needs to finally get it ready for new tenants, how the mysterious rent payments (no doubt supplied by Mycroft) had finally stopped, and my guilt at my recent semi-serious attempted suicide pulls me to want something of his to help bring him into my life again.

I knock on the door to 221B, and when Mrs. Hudson sees me, the first thing she does is give me a hug. She says something that sounds like an apology, but in my grief-stricken state I just nod and walk past her toward the place I used to call home.

As I get to the top of the stairs, I realize she hasn't followed me, and I briefly wonder why. I brush aside the thought, figuring she's most likely off to get me some tea or that she thinks I want to be alone for this first time back, which I guess I do. I open the door to the main room, and my hand catches as I see someone sitting on the couch. I wonder briefly if it's the new tenant Mrs. Hudson mentioned. The person is hunched on the couch, eyes down, a bright swirl of ginger curls surrounding the head. The clothing gives me no clue, to this person or even the gender. It's a mix of clashing colors and styles, making my eyes not want to focus on any one part of the individual, and for the first time in a year I catch myself smiling.

"You're limping again," says the person in a high voice I don't quite recognize, but is the first voice to truly break through my fugue state.

"I'm sorry - do I know you?" I ask and take a step closer. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think?" the person asks, and brings up the chin so I can see startling blue-grey eyes staring right down into my soul.

"Sherlock?" I say, hesitant at first, as my eyes adjust to this ... man in front of me that was saying he was Sherlock but was looking so very different.

"Yes, John," he says, his voice dropping to his usual timbre as he stands to full height.

And my fist is out before I even realize it, hitting him across the jaw, as I topple him to the floor. I punch his face again, saying, "You were dead!" as I do, and my eyes are filling with the tears I never let myself have while I was grieving, but this time they are tears of anger and frustration and desperation. I am watching myself from the outside as I hit Sherlock over and over, wanting to see blood, wanting proof that this isn't just another nightmare (although my violence may indeed be part of that nightmare), as my loneliness over the past year filters into the reality that it didn't have to be so lonely, that Sherlock was alive after all and just didn't feel I was important enough to tell. I see my handiwork, his lip torn and bleeding, bruises starting to form on his cheek, and I catch myself finally, suddenly fully awake to what I am doing. "You were dead," I repeat again, softly, and sit back on my knees, covering my face with my hands as the sobs wrack my body.

"It was necessary," he says, and I realize he had let me hit him. He very easily could have fought back, as I well know, but he didn't. He scoots up to a sitting position hesitantly, still watching my every move, moving his hands slowly to check his wounds. "You had to believe fully that I was dead, otherwise ..." and he trails off like he used to whenever the subject got uncomfortable.

"Otherwise what?" I have to ask, starting to regain control over my emotions. "Otherwise I'd find out I was just a pet to you? That I was just something that kept the boredom away? That you didn't care about me at all?"

There. I may very well have bloodied his face, but it was that which apparently really hurt him.

"Otherwise they would've killed you!" he barks in his pain, and I recoil at the amount of emotion he is displaying. "He threatened Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well," he continues, softer, his eyes flickering away from my face at the admission, "but I would have eventually got over their absence in my life." He turns his look back at me and gently takes my right hand. "But you ..." and he trails off again. "If he at all suspected you didn't believe I was truly dead, it would be your body in the morgue, and there would be no fakery about it, and I ... I couldn't abide that."

I couldn't help myself. "But you could abide leaving me."

"If it meant leaving you alive, yes," he says, and I can see the anguish in his eyes. "I knew this was short term, until this whole business was over with Moriarty and now Moran."

"Short term?" I say, my anger getting the better of me. "It's been a fucking year, Sherlock - how is that short term?" And then something else he said filters in. "Wait - who's Moran?"

"One of Moriarty's people - he took over when ..." and he pauses yet again as he sees my left fist start to clench again.

"So is it over?" I ask, holding back my anger.

"Not quite," he says, giving me a look I can't quite comprehend. "I wasn't planning on revealing myself quite this early, but ..." and another hesitation, and I realize I have never seen him this unsure of his words before in all the time I have known him, and he finally takes a breath and admits, "I've been observing you. I witnessed yesterday."

 _Yesterday?_ And it dawns on me - the walk to Bart's, my climb up the stairs, my thoughts as I looked over the edge. "Oh," is all I can respond, and my hand unclenches as I realize what could have happened had I not stopped myself.

He stands, and offers his hand to help me up. "Now, if it's not too much bother, I could use your help in fixing myself back up."

I follow him into the loo, not surprised at all to find in the closet the med kit I kept there. As I get it, I say, "Have you been here the whole year?"

"Of course not," and I can't help but chuckle at the return to our old form. "But you're still being watched. I had to get you somewhere that they couldn't see me, and Mycroft is fairly sure Moran has stopped his surveillance of Baker Street since you never came back here. Even so, we gave you a valid excuse to come back." I pull out the rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball, and turn around to see him already sitting on the only seat. So, I put one knee down to get at a good angle for the healing process, and cautiously start to dab at his lip. He winces at the pain.

"Serves you right, you bastard," I say with a small smile to let him know that the anger has calmed down. After all, while I am still very angry that it was all a game to Sherlock, it is overwhelmed by the sheer happiness that it was actually just a game and he is most definitely alive. My hand drops the cotton ball, and without even realizing I'm doing it, my hand goes to caress his cheek as confirmation that this is real, that he is real, and not just another one of my fantasies.

"John," he says in that voice, and my breath is as caught as I am, and I quickly drop my eyes, not knowing how to proceed.

 _He knows_ , I panic, and I utter a quick, "Sorry," before he's able to continue, afraid that this will make him walk away again, fall away from me again, and as with my dreams, I'm afraid that I will let him, and so I don't want to push, don't want to go down this road by myself again.

So, I start to drop my hand back down to go back to business as usual, but before I get too far, I feel his hand grab mine in a tight grasp. "Don't worry," I start to say, wanting to stop him before he says those dreadful words 'I'm flattered, but ...', "I am all too aware of how important your work is to you, and where I land compared to it. If I didn't know before, this past year showed me where your priorities are." I take a quick breath, and decide a change of subject is needed. "So, tell me more about this Moran," I say, and start to go again for the cotton ball I dropped. "What's our plan now?"

Before Sherlock gets a word out, there's a knock at the main door. My eyes inadvertently go to his, and I can see the panic in them. "I'll get it. You stay here."

As I walk down the stairs, the thousand and one possibilities of who it could be fly through my mind. I am still thrown, however, when I open the door and see Lestrade standing there, looking nervous. _Does he know?_ I wonder. _Can I tell him?_ Let him take the lead, I decide, and so let my shock at seeing him enter my voice. "Greg? What are you doing here?"

"John," he says with relief. "I ... I was in the neighborhood," and his hand goes through his hair like it does when he's uncomfortable, "nostalgia, I guess - it's almost been a year, after all. Thought I'd pop by, see how Mrs. Hudson was holding up. Surprised the hell out of me when I saw you go in. You haven't been returning my calls, so I figured I'd ambush you while I was at it. You've been alone enough, John. But if you don't want me here, you can bugger off and let me see Mrs. Hudson myself. But if you'd like company, I'm here for ya, mate."

He steps into the hallway, and pulls me close. "Now, I'm not trying to be pervy," he whispers, "but you do know that you've picked yourself up a bit of a stalker, right?"

 _You're still being watched_ , Sherlock had said. _I was observing you_ , he also had said. I wonder which Lestrade is referring to. I also wonder how I can keep him from coming any further into the flat. If he doesn't know, if he shouldn't know, I can't endanger his life by accidentally finding Sherlock. And, I have to admit, I am also feeling more than a twinge of possessiveness over the knowledge that Sherlock was alive.

As we are still close, Mrs. Hudson walks by, two teacups in her hand. "Oh, dear," she says as she takes in the tableau of Greg completely in my personal space. She looks down at the teacups in her hand, and her eyes betray the knowledge of who exactly is upstairs. Of course she knows, I realize in exasperation. She always was smarter than I took her for. Thankfully, Greg is still looking at me, waiting for a response. "Would you like to join us for tea, Detective Inspector? In my sitting room?"

"Ah, in a moment, Mrs. Hudson," he says, polite to the core, and pulls away just enough to close the front door from any potential prying eyes. "I was hoping to have a moment with John, if you don't mind."

"All right, dear," she tuts, and with a quick look at me she walks back to her flat.

"Stalker?" I ask once she is out of earshot.

"Yeah." Greg leans up against the wall across from me. "I was getting ready to follow you in - I was about a block away - when I noticed someone tailing you. So I stuck around to see where he was setting up for his stakeout before I came in."

Ah. So he doesn't mean Sherlock, but rather this mysterious 'other' - probably Moran's people, whoever he is. "Probably someone Mycroft set on me," I come up with. "You're not the only one I've been avoiding calls from."

"Yeah, I don't think so," he says, and before I can stop him, he pushes past me, continuing, "there's a difference between MI-5 and some street thug."

I follow quickly, trying not to panic, calling out, "Lestrade, wait!" just a little too loud in the hopes that it's enough to warn Sherlock.

In the main room, Lestrade strides over to the window. I take a moment as I go in to check the door to the loo, and nearly lose my step as I see it wide open. A quick glance to see Lestrade is currently looking outside, and I quickly shut the door, saying, "Why would anyone other than Mycroft be following me?"

"Don't really quite know," Lestrade says, peeking through the curtains. "I'm surprised you didn't notice him, military man that you are. He wasn't exactly being subtle if I caught 'im."

What could I say? What could I tell him? That over the past year I was so lost without Sherlock that I barely noticed anything? People would most definitely talk. "Well, I've been a bit off my game," I end up with, hearing how lame it sounds even as I say it. I'm desperate to get Greg out, though, desperate to get back to Sherlock, to prove to myself I did actually see him and wasn't going insane with grief. But I can't be too obvious about it. After all, if he was able to catch my tail, he would certainly pick up something odd about me wanting to get rid of him. "I doubt it's anything too serious, Greg. After all, I'm not important."

"The hell you aren't," he says, looking back at me. "Look, I know the whole thing with Moriarty was done up in the papers as if it was all about Sherlock. Hell, I helped perpetrate it, and believe me, I've had to deal with my guilt on my own about my part in his death. But you and I both know the real story, about how much you helped him ... manage."

 _Don't, Greg_ , I want to say. I can't talk about Sherlock, haven't been able to since that time at his grave with Mrs. Hudson, and now, when he's potentially just a few feet away sitting in the loo and I can't tell you that he's alive after all, I definitely can't talk about Sherlock, because apparently Lestrade was also in Moriarty's sights and for all we both know, that tail he noticed was actually for him and not me, and the moment he finds out there will be a muffled gunshot and Lestrade would be dead and I can't have another death on my conscience.

"It's been a year," I say. "If anything was planned for me, wouldn't it have happened already?"

"Maybe you're right," Lestrade says as he looks back out of the window. "Maybe it's just someone wanting to mug you and it's coincidence." He and I both refrain from mentioning Sherlock's thoughts on coincidence. But for whatever reason, he's not pushing the matter. Guilt, I suppose. I wasn't the only one affected, after all, by Sherlock's actions. "Don't suppose I can convince you to join me for a pint?"

"I've got tea with Mrs. Hudson," I say, remembering the way her eyes looked as she brought the teacups out. She knows, after all, who was up here when she invited me over.

"Oh, yes," Lestrade says, nodding his head. "I guess I can't make you. But like I said, if you ever want company - if you ever finally decide you want someone to talk to - I'm here for ya, mate." And with that, he walks back down the stairway. I hear him say some sort of apology for not staying to Mrs. Hudson, but I'm already back on my way to the loo, back to Sherlock.

I walk in and my heart twinges as I see it empty, no sign that Sherlock had even been there except the cotton ball, stained with a drop of his blood, lying on the ground.

He falls. I let him.

I wake up with a start, the first time in a long while that the dream affects me in a negative sense. I'm confused at the dream. I know Sherlock's alive. I saw him, touched him, lost him again. But I am still dreaming of the fall. Of letting him fall.

I catch my breath and decide my brain hasn't quite realized it yet. Rome wasn't built in a day, and knowing Sherlock is alive isn't going to magically clear up my guilt for leaving him to do what he did - even if it wasn't actually what I thought it was. Even though he actually left me.

I had gone back to my place rather than stay. As much as I would love to stay at Baker Street, visions in my head of Sherlock slipping in through a window in the middle of the night to do ... whatever he would do now that he knows, it would be a deviation, and whoever was following me would take note. So, I go back to what I'm already mentally calling my old place, it forever strange to me because it's without Sherlock.

I punch my pillow in frustration. Part of my brain is starting to realize he may have had a point, the wanker. I am not, after all, an actor, and to continue to pretend he's still dead will be a challenge at best. The trip back from Baker Street was a blazing example to me that Sherlock, god damn him, was most likely right - as usual. Trying to see if I am being followed, while not showing that I am looking, had been damn difficult. Yes, I was in the military, but as an army doctor, not counter fucking intelligence.

If I thought getting through my day without Sherlock was difficult, the idea of going through the day ahead of me without him but knowing he is really alive is ghastly. Suddenly, I have no idea how I was able to get through my days lately, how I was able to make the time go by in that blur where you have no idea where the last few hours have gone, but you're glad that they did.

I think back to when we were on the run, how Sherlock was able to not be bored because he knew something was going to happen, it was just a matter of when. Maybe that's enough?

I had gone to Baker Street under the pretense of wanting something of his to keep with me. All I came back with was a slightly bloodied cotton ball.

I think back over to those brief few minutes I had with Sherlock, relishing them. I feel honored, in a way, that he at last thought enough about me to interrupt the game, even if it was because I halfway contemplated public suicide.

Would've served him right, I can't help but think, to make him go through what I had been going through this past year. Maybe then, Sherlock could finally graduate from "I'm married to my work" to finally admitting ... what, exactly? He had gone a year without me, hinted it could have been longer (short term, my arse), so why exactly did it matter to him if I had been eyeing my gun with a little more than friendly interest?

I try to rein my anger at Sherlock in. He never meant it, after all - it was never intentional, the way he treated me like I was there for his purpose and his purpose only. At times, I even found it comforting. After all, I was the only one he did treat that way. But his leaving - again - without any clues other than a name, a name I can't investigate without bringing attention to myself and therefore him, is frustrating me, making me feel yet again like he doesn't trust me, like I am yet again on the shorter end of our partnership, our friendship, our ... whatever this is.

I finally get out of bed, knowing the nightmare will keep me up, and I go into the shower. I have an unsatisfying wank, my fantasies tainted by the knowledge that he would never partake of them. After all, I can still hear the disapproval in his voice as I caressed his cheek.

I get dressed, switching my thoughts over to the rest of what he said. Moran, whoever he was, had obviously taken over for Moriarty. He also, apparently, was having me followed. But why?

And then there's his mentioning of Mycroft. Sherlock's admittance that his brother not only knew, but was currently involved (and therefore most likely had helped orchestrate it) fills me with a burning rage that scares me. Sherlock hates his brother with a passion - the few times he did show emotion - and yet he gives him the faith and trust I feel he still hasn't shown me.

Maybe that's where I can start today, I decide. If anybody can have a bug-free and follow-free meeting with me, it'd be Mycroft Holmes. For all I know, my mobile is compromised, so calling him is out of the question. I grab it, though, as a safety precaution, as well as my keys, and take half a minute to contemplate the gun, finally checking that it's loaded and putting it in my trousers.

I take one last look around to see if there is anything else I need, suspecting this may very well be the last time I will see this room, and then grab a pad of paper and a pen and walk out.

I get to the street, and walk a block or two, trying not to be obvious about shaking the thug that I now can't help but see following me, and find a public phone near an intersection. I eye the nearest CCTV, and then pull out the pad of paper and pen.

"We need to talk," I write on the paper, and then hold it up to the camera for a full ten seconds, waiting. When there is no car and no phone call, I pull the pad back down. "It's about your brother," I write this time, and I barely have time to show it to the camera when the phone starts its ringing.

"The car will be around shortly," Mycroft's voice says as soon as I pick up the receiver, and so I put up the pad of paper and pen, and wait - totally calm and aware for the first time in a year.

I get in the car, contemplate flirting with Anthea just for old times' sake, and finally decide against it. I watch her watch her mobile, and pay attention to the twists and turns the car is taking. We finally stop at yet another abandoned building, and I walk in, fighting the déjà vu. Mycroft is as well-pressed as ever, standing like the stereotypical villain in a Bond film, his umbrella holding him up.

"I assume this is about your little trip to Baker Street," he starts without preamble, but really, had Mycroft and I ever had a normal, civilized conversation?

"He's alive," I say, knowing it isn't needed but still wanting to claim the knowledge of my own.

"Yes," Mycroft drawls, turning it into 'and your point being?' in the inflection.

"Tell me everything," I say, and I mentally wince at the plea my voice is showing.

"Everything?" he says, and I can hear the humour in his voice. "That would take an exceptionally long time."

"Christ, you know what I mean," I say, rubbing my forehead in exasperation. "Don't get me wrong: I'm thrilled that Sherlock's alive, but how and why and what happens next?"

"So many questions," he tuts. "As to the how, I was not directly involved with that end of things," Mycroft continues, a grimace showing how little he appreciates telling me this. "Your best bet is to ask Sherlock."

"Like he's going to tell me. He didn't even want to tell me he was alive."

"You might also try Ms. Hooper," he says after a short pause. "Sherlock has hinted that she ... helped."

"Molly?" I ask in disbelief. "Molly knows? Christ - Molly, Mrs. Hudson, you - is there anybody besides me that doesn't know Sherlock's alive?"

"I do believe the police force is unaware, if that helps." Fantastic. Now he's smirking.

"Great - Sherlock puts me in the same category as Donovan and Anderson. 'Cause my ego hasn't had enough of a blow lately," I mumble.

"Oh, dear boy," Mycroft says, straightening, "I highly doubt he categorizes you anywhere near those cretins." I can't help the slight chuckle at the description, my gallows humour back in full force. "As to the why, I don't doubt that he's alive because he does not wish to be dead."

"One more crack like that, and I may have to hit you," I say, my voice becoming steel in its seriousness. "Why did he fake his death? Why didn't he tell me?"

"And again, you seem to think I know Sherlock's mind," he says with more than just a tinge of exasperation. "Surely, Sherlock gave you some sort of reason."

"Yeah," I say, my own exasperation showing. "He gave me some story about how I would've been killed had I been told, but we both know I'm just a pawn in this chess game between him and Moriarty - or Moran, I guess I should be saying now."

"You really believe that?" Mycroft asks, and I am startled by his genuine disbelief. "Did Sherlock not say anything else?" he adds quickly.

"We didn't have a whole lot of time to talk," I say. "I don't even have anything on this Moran character, other than he apparently took over for Moriarty."

"Ah, well, that may explain things a bit," he says, and I get the feeling it's more to himself than to me. "Moran is, or shall I say was, Moriarty's second in command. A retired colonel, from what I understand. When Moriarty went up against Sherlock after the trial, he was one of the assassins I warned you about. In fact, he was the one that was assigned to you, which is why your belief in Sherlock's death was - and still is, I might add - so vital to the plan."

"Great," I sigh.

"Which brings us to your third question - what happens next." He gives me an iron gaze that makes me straighten up unintentionally in response. "You will move back to Baker Street. It is starting to look suspicious that Mrs. Hudson has not rented the flat, and it would be easier on us to have someone there we trust."

"I can't just sit and do nothing," I say, wincing at the plea in my voice.

"Then you will get a job, find a hobby, date a woman: continue soldiering on with your life. It has, as you have noted, been a year, and you need to start showing signs that you are moving on."

"I want to help," I add. "I can go after ...."

"You will do no such thing," he interrupts, his voice more cutting than I've ever heard it. "Did not Sherlock tell you that you are still under surveillance? If you do anything - and I do mean anything - that shows you know anything about Moran, you will not live to see that day end. While you may not care about your life, you are more valuable alive than dead."

"Thanks, I think." I give another small chuckle at the absurdity of the situation.

"For now, you will follow orders, like the good little soldier you are, and wait out this battle. Do I make myself clear?"

I look at him, not attempting to hide the seething anger I am feeling, and finally nod my head once, knowing when I have been dismissed. And without another word, I turn around and walk back out.

I have Anthea take me to Baker Street, and catch myself hoping that Sherlock will be back in the place, knowing he won't be. As I go through the door, Mrs. Hudson welcomes me with a hug and a comment about how she's glad I'm there, and I briefly wonder how she's able to continue acting like Sherlock's still dead.

I go up to the flat, take an inventory of what I will need to get at Tesco's, and actively avoid Sherlock's bedroom. I then make a mental list of the various things I need to do in order to not show what I know. And I spend the rest of the day actively trying not to think about how little Sherlock seems to care about what I'm going through, or how little he seems to trust me.

He falls. I let him.

The days turn into weeks that turn into months. After that first night, I no longer have the nightmare - no longer have any dreams at all that I can remember. While part of me is glad that the torture of seeing him fall is over, part of me misses the dreams, since they - as with when I thought he was dead - are the only times I see him.

As part of my new cover of 'moving on', I start going back to my therapist. I tell her enough of the truth of what I have been going through to get her to prescribe me anti-depressants, and when I take them home, I use Sherlock's lab equipment to take the medicine out of the capsules and replace it with ground up Tic Tacs. I then make a point to go out with Mike and Bill more than once, mentioning how much I don't like being dependent on them but still taking them nonetheless. I hide my smile when they both notice how I seem to be doing better.

I avoid Lestrade as much as I can, knowing he is most likely also watched and that I won't be able to clue him in to it, and only see Molly once across a crowded room, giving her a look that hopefully shows her that she is not alone.

Sherlock remains noticeably absent, from the flat and from my life. I still see signs of him around, though, and wonder how much of it is actually him trying to give me clues and how much of it is just my hope that I actually do mean something to him. It's the only thing that keeps my anger at him in check.

With the act of moving on, I find myself actually moving on. I take Mycroft's advice/orders to heart, and go back to working at the clinic, which helps the days go by. Part of me contemplates restarting what I had with Sarah - the breakup, after all, was mostly amiable, and the biggest reason it had stopped - Sherlock's presence in our lives - is no more. I decide against it, still jumbled about my feelings for Sherlock, and his for me.

While my days move on quickly, the nights are long and lonely as my ache for Sherlock ebbs and flows, and I start to let myself think that my newly found sexual feelings for him are just a product of my grief and guilt.

One night, frustrated with myself and with Sherlock, I finally decide I need to figure myself out one way or the other, and bravely go out to a gay bar Harry had mentioned once or twice but that I knew she didn't frequent often. The last thing, after all, I need is for my sister to take an interest in my sexuality crisis.

I sit at the bar, using my army training in a way I never would've thought I would in a million years, and scan the other patrons. As I contemplate my next step, the choice is taken away from me as a man sidles up to me, saying, "You here by yourself?"

I look at the man, gauging. Not much taller than me, with a light tan, he has dark military-cut hair, and it takes an army man to recognize another, and I catch myself grinning. This man was the furthest thing from Sherlock I could probably get, and I want that, need that, for this night. I motion to the empty chair next to me, and say, "Please join me," with the smile I know is a killer to the women I've picked up before, hoping it works on men as well.

As he sits down, his eyes light up in reaction to it, and I know with that certainty I've cultivated over the decades of dating women that he would walk out of this bar and follow me home right now if I just say the word. "I'm John, by the way," I say, leaning toward him just enough to be flirtatious.

"Steven," he says, and touches my arm in a slightly possessive way. "What are you drinking?"

"Whiskey right now," I say, letting his hand stay on my arm.

The next few minutes' worth of conversation are filled with that deadly dull casual chat everyone always does when they are just killing time until it's appropriate to offer to take it somewhere a little more private. Steven came home from the war about six months after me, naturally in his case, seems impressed by my being shot, and doesn't once mention ever seeing me in the papers, which means he either doesn't know or doesn't care about Sherlock. If I hadn't decided to take him home before, that bit of knowledge is the deciding factor. He likes rugby (bizarrely follows Oldham for some ghastly reason), and is currently working as a security guard at a shipping facility near the airport in Leeds.

I tell him just enough truth about who I am and what I do to keep the big lies straight, never mentioning what I've really done for the past three years or so. I find myself growing impatient, worrying that I will chicken out of trying to see if I really have started fancying men as well as women, and so I let him do most of the talking and instead move my hand to his knee about five minutes in the conversation in an obvious sign of where I hope this meeting goes.

Ten minutes in, and he's leaning in to whisper in my ear a request to go somewhere else, and I don't hesitate to swig the last of my drink, pay off my tab, and follow him outside. The blast of cool air against my skin makes me pause, the situation suddenly becoming very real, and part of me feels like I'm cheating, even though Sherlock has never expressed - and based on his reaction to my hand on his cheek, will never express - interest in me, not in that way.

"You all right?" Steven asks, his hand grabbing my elbow in concern. This time, I shake it off before I realize what I've done.

I don't say a word, though, my need to get Sherlock out of my system once and for all filling every pore in my being. So, instead, I pull Steven toward the alleyway and shove him up against the wall, kissing him with all my might. I get a little squeak of surprise, but then he is kissing me back, his hands going to my sides and hair, drilling his tongue into my mouth. I close my eyes, putting everything into the kiss, and my brain finally catches up to what I am doing, and how being so focused on not thinking about Sherlock is still thinking about Sherlock, and I analyze whether this kiss is doing anything for me, and my morality pipes up and lets me know that I am being terribly unfair to Steven. When all is said and done, I realize, I am not attracted to Steven. As I pull away regretfully, the part of my brain that still insists I'm not gay triumphantly says, _See? Not gay!_ , while the rest of my brain hesitantly adds, _Maybe he's just not your type_ , and wants to try the experiment with someone who is a little taller, a little paler, and a lot more clever.

"I'm ... I'm sorry," I say, taking a step back from him, not looking him directly in the eye. "I ...." I what? How can I explain without giving the full story? I can't, so I just say, "I'm sorry," one more time, and walk away blindly, not caring where I'm headed.

I've gone barely two blocks when I notice the car pulling up towards me, and I groan inwardly. Of course Mycroft would have something to say about this latest incident, and the absurdity of explaining my going out to a gay bar to Mycroft fucking Holmes gives me a slight case of the giggles. Sometimes, using humour as a defense mechanism sucks.

So, when the window pulls down, I just say, "You can tell Mycroft to fuck off," and I turn at the last, because I want to see if I finally got through the unaffected exterior of his assistant. But instead of Anthea, I see a tall, thin man with long stringy hair that's so blond it might as well be white. As I'm about to ask who he is, he turns to me and I see the grey-blue eyes that sends a jolt straight to my cock and I am instantly hard as soon as I realize it's Sherlock. _Well, there goes that theory_ , I can't help but think back to my _I'm not gay_ part of my brain. Irene was right: I may not be gay normally (bisexual, maybe, possibly, even probably), but Sherlock is anything but normal and I suddenly realize I'm standing on a street in the night with an erection that would make porn stars proud right where Sherlock can see it.

I halfway consider continuing to walk away, as I had planned back when I thought it was going to be one of Mycroft's minions, and I even turn slightly away when I hear him say, "John, get in before someone sees."

The fury at the implied command, _for now, you will follow orders_ , wilts my erection better than anything I could've planned, and I wonder how it is that Sherlock can inspire both such lust and anger at the same time.

He sees my expression, of course he does, and I hear the tentative, "Please?" that he's learned to do, that he learned from me to do, that worked on me all those times before and doesn't have a chance in hell of not working on me now, not when he is at least alive and so very definitely not dead, even if he has been ignoring me this whole time.

I turn back and get in the car. "I assume by your costume that the situation is still in play," I say, hoping to skip over the awkwardness of finding out whatever he may have seen before.

"Yes," he says, giving me that look he has when he's trying to deduce everything he can in five minutes, and I look away, caring and not caring if he notices anything that may show what he didn't actually see. "Although I am closer than ever," he adds hopefully.

"So, then," I say, suddenly wanting to hurt him again, "what is the point of this meeting?"

"I ... I wanted to see you," he fumbles, and I preen a little at the knowledge that I have made him unsure of himself again, the sudden memory of how Irene had made him fumble filling my head.

"I'm sure you can see me any time you want," I say, my voice hard. "Why did you think it necessary that I see you in return?"

"You're angry."

"Excellent deduction, Sherlock," I say quietly.

"Why? I thought we were past this."

I finally look back at him, and sigh at the knowledge that he is truly and genuinely confused. "Can we not do this here?" I ask. "I'd rather not have this out with you in front of an audience," I continue, motioning to the driver.

His eyes flicker to the driver as confirmation, then back to me. "Where would you like to 'have this out', then?"

I rub my eyes and forehead, sensing the headache that this conversation is inevitably going to give me, and sigh again. "I don't suppose you could come back to Baker Street without ruining whatever cover you're currently using?"

There's a pause, and I can hear Sherlock thinking, damn him, thinking yet again about the case, the work, and debating whether it was worth exposure just to have an argument he doesn't understand with me, with useless, helpless me. "It's possible," he finally says, and I hold back the snarky _Hallelujah!_ I want to say at the idea of Sherlock finally deciding my needs are worth considering. "What about Mrs. Hudson?" he asks.

"She's out visiting Mrs. Turner," I say, wanting to add, _Do you think I'm daft enough to want to bring a bloke home when she was home?_ , but don't.

"Ah. For us to get past Moran, however, we will need to play up your latest venture, however," he continues, and I can't help the blush that I give at Sherlock's acknowledgment that he did indeed know what I was up to a few minutes ago. I nod, not wanting to verbally acknowledge anything, and we spend the rest of the car ride in silence. I don't look at him, rather pointedly looking out the window instead, and instinctively keep my thoughts silent.

We finally arrive, and as I get out, I remember what he says about the need for cover, and I turn and offer my hand to help him out. As he steps away from the car, I move my hand to the small of his back, hoping this little display of body language is enough to give the impression I am leading a man into my flat, into my bedroom. I very specifically tell my brain to not think about having Sherlock in my bed, which of course makes it think the most dirty thing it can, Sherlock under me, ravaged and beautifully naked and needy and begging for something only I can bring him. I give that part of the brain a stern talking to, reminding it that it will never happen, and also reminding it of Sherlock's apparent unconcern for me and my emotions.

We walk into Baker Street that way, and I drop my hand as soon as the front door is closed. I motion him up the stairs, still silent, and double check that Mrs. Hudson is still away. I have a sneaking suspicion, after all, that we are going to be anything but quiet in this conversation.

I walk up the stairs slowly, dreading what needs to be done, what needs to be said, still not sure myself what exactly I plan on saying.

When I open the door to the sitting room, I see Sherlock sitting hesitantly on the sofa, and my brain flashes back to the last time we were like this, when my whole world was turned upside down with just a handful of words. I suddenly have no problem getting back to my anger, as I realize he has done this intentionally, using my sentiment against me, hoping that reminding me of this moment will make me forgive him for whatever I am mad at him for, not knowing what it is.

"Do you _want_ me to hit you?" I ask without thought, with exasperation and frustration and even a little humour.

"It seemed to do the job last time," he says, and I wonder if I am imagining the hope in his voice. "If that's what you need to do for us to progress through this, I would be open to dealing with it."

"Christ, Sherlock, you sound like a victim in an abusive relationship," I say, looking away, "like you think you deserve to be hit. No one deserves that."

"You said the cabbie deserved to die, as he wasn't a good man. As I've said to you in the past, I am not a good man."

I rub my face, choosing my words carefully. Christ, when did I turn into a twelve year old girl, worried what her best mate was thinking about her and wanting to impress her at the same time? _When you first met the bugger_ , my head answers in a response, only halfway joking. The thought that I actually fell for him at first meeting, how his immediate knowledge of my history and family made me want to impress him in return, crosses my mind - not for the first time - and I sigh again.

"I can't do this," I finally decide. I just want this all to be over. "I'm done." I see the look of pain on his face as I say it, and take a deep breath. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?" I finally ask, finally looking at him in the eyes.

"I want you to be safe."

My laugh sounds more like a bark in my surprise. "Safe? I haven't been safe since I met you. I didn't continue being your flatmate so I could be safe. I didn't go on the run with you so I would be safe!"

"But the work ...."

My hand is out, quickly shoving him against the wall, my arm across his neck. "If you mention how important the work is to you, I will punch you in the throat."

I can feel his gulp as he contemplates his next words.

"You are the work at the moment," he finally says, and my arm falters at the phrase.

"Excuse me?"

He gives me that look that tells me I missed a vital clue or ten. "Moran knows about you, and is much more aware of your relevance to me than Moriarty ever was. Moriarty thought of you as my pet, someone I kept around for entertainment. Moran's more like you - he knows better than that. He knows what you really are to me."

I blink my eyes and swallow, not quite sure that I heard what I think I heard. "And what am I to you?" I ask, afraid of both getting an answer and not.

"A distraction." He pushes my arm away, giving us some distance. "That's why I tried staying away. That's why I didn't tell you anything until I had to." His eyes look away. "Mycroft is right. Caring is not an advantage. Ms. Adler proved how dangerous a disadvantage these emotions can really be. It's like a damned logic puzzle. The more I want to be with you, the more I need you to stay away. And it just goes round and round in a vicious cycle."

"I'm ... a distraction?" Confusion replaces my anger: I know, after all, how easily he gets bored.

"If I had to be truly honest with you," he says, still avoiding my eyes, "you have become more important to me than the work," and I swear my heart skips a beat at the compliment, "and so therefore your safety and happiness means more to me than it should."

"Happiness?" I ask. "Have I looked at all happy to you since you ... since I thought you killed yourself, and that I let you do it?"

He looks at me finally, and I see something I do not expect - fear. "Logic would dictate you would be happier without me."

I sigh again, exasperated, and finally reach the 'fuck it' stage of my deliberations. Sometimes, in battle, it was better to stumble blindly forward in the hopes of something, rather than stay back with the certainty of nothing. I look down and take a deep breath. "Do you really want to know what would make me happy?" I look back up, and without another word, I pull him down to me into a fierce, bruising kiss. If this is the only time I'm ever going to do this, after all, I plan on making it the best damned one I could.

He is baffled by the kiss: I can tell by his awkwardness as he tries to decide what to do with his hands, not sure whether to put them around my neck or my shoulders or my back. He finally gets his hands on my shoulders, but uses them to try to push me away, and after a moment more, I ease off and let him.

"I know you don't normally do ... this," I stumble, knowing romance is the wrong word, but so is sex, "but this - this would make me happy."

He is still looking at me in shock, and I belatedly realize he is still processing the last couple of minutes.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" I touch his arm cautiously, and it seems to be the necessary switch as he gulps and pulls away from me, touching his lips as if to feel the evidence.

"I can't have you near me," he says, a tremor in his voice. "Not while you're not safe. I can't afford to have you distract me. That's why I had to fake my death. I had to give you up in order to save you." He pauses with a gulp. "It was the lesser of two evils. I can't have both."

"I hear a lot of 'can't' there," I say tentatively. "Not 'won't'. Are you saying you want ...."

"It's not a matter of want," he cuts me off. "I would rather have you alive and never close to me than dead and never in my life again."

And my anger flares again. "And who the fuck put you in charge of what happens to the both of us? Christ - it's the same as with your stupid plan to fake your death. You just can't seem to realize that I may have different ideas than you that may be valuable options." I step back, not wanting to be near him, as I feel myself get angrier, all my frustration since I first saw him fall off Bart's combining into one big ball of hurt. "Your lack of trust confounds me, Sherlock. Have I ever done anything to make you think I can't be trusted? Fuck - I've killed for you. What more do you want?"

He looks at me in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he asks. "I trust you implicitly."

"Oh, yeah - you trust me so much that you fake your death without telling me, and when you finally do show yourself as alive, you barely have contact with me. I feel bloody useless, and it hurts to know you did all that without thinking I needed to know, to have any kind of say in the matter."

This time, it's Sherlock's time to sigh in exasperation. "Like always, John, you see, but you don't _observe_. As I say, I trust you implicitly. I didn't tell you so you'd have plausible deniability should it be necessary. It's everyone else I don't trust - especially me."

"I ... what?"

He steps back into my personal space, and grasps my arms tight. He stares intently at me and says, "I am an addict, John - or don't you remember that? Like I said: that's why I've stayed away. I don't trust myself around you any more, especially now that I know you ..." and he trails off, taking his hands off me. "I need to focus on the case, on bringing Moran down as quick as I can, before we can ... before we can have the rest of this discussion," he ends.

I back away, his words finally filtering through my brain, and take the few steps needed to sink slowly into my chair. Sherlock effectively just told me he – well, if not loves me, at least cares about me more than he was comfortable with, which ends up meaning the same thing when it comes to him, and that it was that emotion that made it necessary for him to not only have faked his death, but to not have told me about it, then tell me about it, and then to not be around me after. It was a lot to process, and the part of me that remembered my army training realizes that blast it, Sherlock was right – as always. Staying away would be the smartest thing to do. The man really is insufferable.

 _That's why you love him_ , my brain says, and I can't help the small grin of agreement that I give as a response. I look up, and the grin gets a bit wider as I notice Sherlock still at the wall, looking at me with both hesitancy and fear, with just a little bit of hope as well, waiting for my reaction to his words.

And I decide. "How can I help?" I ask. "I can't just sit here and exist like I have: I want to be able to help."

The smile that crosses Sherlock's face is wide and genuine, and I can see the appreciation that I didn't respond to what was for him a rather emotional conversation. Saying anything more would compromise the situation, would compromise both of us, and it is enough for me to know this whole thing was not an issue of his trust in me. He pushes off the wall, walks to the couch, and flops down as if nothing of import had happened.

We spend the next hour or so discussing tactics and plans, ways I can help Sherlock's plan without revealing it, and I slowly let go all my anger and frustration at Sherlock's leaving me to think he was gone forever.

Our plans slowly come together, and I see the signs that Sherlock is itching to be gone, and for the first time, I take it as a compliment, knowing that he needs to be gone or lose himself with me. So, I stand, offering my hand out to him. I can't help the joke that suddenly hits my mind, though, and so I say, "You know, if you really want Moran to believe I brought some bloke back here for a quickie, we both should really look much more debauched before I let you leave."

He quirks a smile at me, seeing the joke, and takes a step toward me. "I only wish we could," he says. "That is something I am eagerly looking forward to experiencing, especially with you, but if I were to start, I wouldn't be able to leave for days."

I'm not sure what part of the sentence does it – the sudden knowledge of Sherlock confirming his lack of sexual experience, the idea that Sherlock really did want to do those kinds of things with me, or the idea of being in bed with Sherlock for _days_ – but I am suddenly and painfully aroused, and I have to shift a little in order to not be too obvious to the man, not that Sherlock probably hasn't deduced it anyway. I cough a little with the thoughts, and take the necessary step back to give the both of us the distance needed before we really did end up wrapped up in each other. "Any ideas as to how much longer?" I strangle out, and I see his eye drop down to my pants and quirk back up at what he sees there.

"Fairly quickly," he says, and I can't help but notice the aversion to giving me a specific deadline. "Especially now that I have extra incentive." He steps forward, and gives me a quick kiss, full of promise. It takes every inch of resolve I have to not turn it into more, knowing that Sherlock is right, and we can't be distracted by this now.

"I don't ..." I trail off, not sure of my words. "You shouldn't ...."

"If you need me to show up," he says, sensing what I can't say, "tell Mrs. Hudson to buy some toothpaste at Tesco's. The type I use, not the type she does, but on her credit card. I'll come around as soon as I can. Otherwise, I think it would be wise for me to stay away until I've completely taken care of my end of things. Will that ... do you approve?" And I am slightly taken aback at his wanting to confirm with me, and I nod before I even really comprehend it.

So, I take a deep, shuddering breath, willing my erection away, and motion him toward the door. "I'd better see you out. For the look of things," I explain.

I walk him down and out the front door. Then, as we step outside, I take his hand, and in full view of every CCTV lined on Baker Street, pull him into a heated kiss. This time, Sherlock responds enthusiastically, and my libido is suddenly capitulating to the idea of bringing him straight back into the flat. I break away from the kiss, and lean up quickly before the CCTVs think to zoom in on my lips to read them, and whisper, "Come back to me soon," hiding the _I love you_ I want to say instead.

"Of course," he whispers back, and I smile as I hear the unspoken return of love. We pull away in equal measures, and I slowly let him go.

Before I have second thoughts, I turn and walk back up to the flat, up to my room, and I sink into my bed, thinking over all the things we said, realizing nothing truly important was left out. Sherlock is alive, and for the first time since he jumped, I am at peace with the fact that he had to leave me in order to do it. Finally, I feel like I am a partner in his crazy world.

He falls. I catch him. And I don't let go.


End file.
